Tag Archives: life

Of Some Days and Others

..some days, she wants to fly. higher and away. beyond the skies. she wants to stand atop a hill, surrounded by gushing waterfalls and pink and purple sunsets and take flight and fly beyond several moons and suns. to a world of radiance. to a world of bright and happy. to a world so majestic and so beautiful. on days like those, she’s happy; a smile teases her face every now and then, curling her lips only slightly and yet, inside, she’s as happy as the world. she wants to soar. beyond and far. higher and away. and discover. some days, she feels like she’s invincible. some days, she feels like doing a little twirl and laughing out loud. some days, she’s filled with hope.

and some days, she feels sick and dead. tired. almost as if the the last drop of energy has been taken away from her and she’s cold and helpless. on days like those, she doesn’t want to fly. the sunsets and mirages don’t appeal to her. nor does the mosaic sky. she wants to curl up next to her window, covered in her blanket and drown a little deeper into the darkness of the day. by the solitary candle, she cries and lets the lone tear hide her wry smile and breaking heart. she feels like a person on the road, surrounded by buzzing landscapes of cars zooming right across her, and she stops and kneels down on the gravel and screams and yet, the world just walks by. some days, she’s broken. some days, she sits next to misted windows and talks to nobody. some days, she’s hopeless..to a point where she doesn’t want to keep going.

only, some days.

Picture Credits – Siddharth Mohanty

Advertisements

Of Almosts

..pulling her hand, to the tune of the rustling autumn breeze, he runs to the crooked, little wooden bench and they both sit. smelling the enticing taste of roasted apples that waltz past them. he almost says it, almost. the words are right at the tip. and almost out there. slowly slipping off the edge. staying a while. threatening to spill.

she tugs at his shirt and his eyes burn into hers as she looks up at him. her dark pupils gleam with curiosity as he studies her, gulping, lingering a while and slowly breathing out.

as the noises come closer, his breaths become more frantic. he pushes past the words threatening to flow out, dreams glistening in his radiant blue eyes that never fail to amaze her. they hold a sincerity, so profound that she can feel herself live the stories that his eyes hold.

“that’s all you wanted to tell me?” she mumbles, her eyes holding hope. she tastes hope. and anxiety. and fear. sweet and sour and a million things more.

and he almost says it, but doesn’t.

“yes, that’s it. it was nothing.”

isn’t there more? she wants to ask almost. but, doesn’t.

and he turns away and looks at the sun. purple and orange and darker tones. and she looks away and watches the sunset too. a sunset of a million hopes and the one story she was almost sure of. almost.

(Image credits – Siddharth Mohanty)

Of Heartbreaks

It felt cold. Almost numb and unfeeling.
There he stood, chatting away with my friend, staring down at her with a shine in his eyes I’d never seen. And to a corner, I stood, clutching the straps of my bag, biting my lips and looking down at my worn out red sneakers.

I heard them laugh. I watched them hold each other’s hand. And somewhere in that moment, a silent tear slipped down my cheek. Why, wasn’t it the very same guy I had been pining for since the last month, dreaming like a typical teenager, falling trap to his charms. How did I miss out the fact that every time he talked to me, his eyes never met mine, for he kept looking for somebody else? How did I not see the tiny little hints my friend left with me to tell him, and yet I hopelessly fell in love with somebody who could never love me?

Bringing a hand to my cheek, in the pretext of wiping my nose, I wiped away the stray tear and smiled.

“Why are you standing there?” he called, his voice so happy that it made me cringe.

“Yes! Come here, you idiot!” she called too.

A part of me kept breaking and the other part silently picked up the pieces. I felt like turning around and walking away, but I knew I’d cry. So, I walked closer to them and flashed them a grin that hurt me so much to tell.

“See,” she proudly declared, “She is the reason why we both are together now! Had she not helped, I’d have never met an amazing person like you.”

He looked up and laughed, his knees slightly bending and his hands in his pockets. I fell in love with that too.

“Well, there’s always this angel,” he gave me a grateful smile and I smiled back.

With each smile I managed to put up that was not so real, a part of me withered away and I realized it would never be the same.

“Seriously, you’ve been such a great friend to both of us! We can never think of ways to thank you enough,” he said again.

I shook my head and despite myself, I laughed.

“You’re making this so awkward! You both are in love with each other! So, celebrate! I’ll leave you alone now,” I said and the corners of my lips quivered. “I’ll meet you people tomorrow.”

Ten minutes later, I sat on the empty tennis court, clutching my jacket tight and breathing in too deep. It felt numb. I wanted to cry, but I only managed to cough.

Somebody came around and hugged me close.

“How does it feel?”

“Like shattered pieces of glass that can never be put back.”

Of Childhood and Notebooks

I remember a time, back when I was barely twelve, and we lived in a small house with breaking mosaic patterned tiles, Mom never bought us those ruled notebooks. Instead, she’d buy us sheets of plain, white paper and stitch them up to make it look like a notebook.

I was always fascinated with those hardbound or paperback notebooks, though, for they had pictures of superheroes and superstars and unicorns on them. But Mom never bought us those. All I had were sheets of bright, crisp paper divided into two halves, with a taut white string holding the pages together.

With time, I learnt to make it look better. I’d paste little stickers on it or cut out pictures from magazines and old newspapers and decorate the front page with them. But no matter how much I tried, the cover page of my notebook was never as glossy or gorgeous as the ones they sold in shops. But I never gave up. I started sketching and drawing on the front page to make it look the way I wanted it to be. Often, somebody in school would stop by, steal a glance at my weird, little notebook and ask me if I had designed it. A part of me would be scared to answer because there’d always be this lingering fear in my mind whether it’d be laughed upon or appreciated. My friends would compliment me and shove their notebooks into my hand and ask me to design one for them.

Over the years, plain notebooks without factory-made cover pages didn’t bother me anymore.

Even when I had a chance to buy myself those notebooks I had once envied, it didn’t feel that great as it was supposed to. Rather, the notebooks felt too ordinary when I pulled them out from my bag and saw the rest of the class of forty students pull out the same kind of notebook too. That is when I realized how beautiful those barren, plain notebooks that Mom brought for us, were. My designs on it were unique. Yes, there was no cellophane covering on it, so whenever it rained, I had to go back home, tear away the cover page and make another one, but it was all worth. For they stood out. Stood out from the rest.

Over the years, many other things changed too. Mom stopped buying us those sheets of paper and instead bought us those hardbound, ruled notebooks. I didn’t draw on them. They looked too perfect already. The cover pages were waterproof. So I didn’t have to bother when it rained. In fact, I never bothered at all. I let them lie on the study table, collecting dust. The other notebooks carried a piece of me in them. I’d keep them locked up in cupboards like they were some hidden treasure. And my heart would swell in pride every time somebody would praise them.

I don’t know why I suddenly remembered about them. The thought arrived like a little flash of memory, bringing along with, a fountain of nostalgia.

Years have gone by. I’ve moved on from those “weird”, little notebooks to factory-made, custom designed notebooks to spiral bound ones and more. But I haven’t moved on from those memories. Be it the awkward squirming on seeing a friend pull out a proper notebook to waiting for the class to look at the teacher so that I could pull out my notebook without becoming a laughing stock to garnering appreciation for the same doodles, it’s been a crazy little ride.

A part of me wants to go back in time and find my treasure cove. I want to call Mom up and ask her if they sell those loose sheets of paper anymore. But I know the answer, they don’t. Just like me, they’ve moved on to better technology and better ways. Mom probably wouldn’t make me those notebooks if I asked her to. She is too busy. Yet, a part of me wants that and only that.

It makes me wonder of how we remember so much about the things we shouldn’t have bothered to remember. Perhaps, it is because though the moment had seemed very insignificant once upon a time, it made us into the person we are today. The miles we’ve come; the miles we’ve yet to conquer, we owe it to these tiny, beautiful memories.

Of Late Night Talks (III)

“Your life is pretty interesting enough,” he muttered. “You can write about that. I’d read it.”

I gave him a small, half-hearted smile.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to write about my life; pen down the little happenings and the hundred people I come across everyday and write about my dreams and hopes. I can’t do that. It’s too-” I paused, searching for the right adjective. “Too difficult. The story will start to sound too mechanical. There’ll be no soul to it.”

“I don’t think I understand that. My bad I’m not a writer,” he said.

“Where do I start, in case I ever decide to write about my life? The problem is, there’s so much I could write about and yet, it feels so less! What do I write about? Of how I spend nights crying, wishing I weren’t alone? Of how I look at every person, trying to understand them only to have them push me away because they love their facades? I don’t go to parties. I don’t drink. I don’t have a huge social circle. You’d find me on weekends, curled up in my bed, stating at the ceiling fan and thinking nothing. What do I write about? That? That sometimes I feel like doing nothing? That sometimes I just want to sit on the edge of a cliff and spend my entire life there? That sometimes, I feel so empty it almost kills me? Will people read any of it?”

“I’ll tell you what will make then read it,” he said and turned to me. “Somewhere between the lines, down the few hundred pages, they’ll find a person like them.”

“No! We’re all so very different!” I cried almost immediately, but then, I paused again.

He sighed and leaned back. “I’ve gone through all that too, everything that you mentioned. Let’s accept it, each one of us is a little scared, a little confused and a little sad. We cry. We laugh. We fall. We are hopeless. We stand up. We live. We die. We are little miracles. Our lives can be wonderful. Why do you think nobody would be interested in reading about your life and seeing how much it resonates with theirs?! You should write your story. I’d read it.”

“Where do I start?”

“It’s your story.”

“I can’t,” I said and stood up. “My story seems so small, so insignificant than the stories of people I come across everyday.”

“They feel the same too, that your story could be so moving than theirs. But you know what, that is probably what makes each one of our stories so magical. In the midst of our busy lives, starting from waking up and travelling in crammed buses to returning late and spending sleepless nights, there hides this one beautiful story, struggling to be told. And yet, no one gives it a chance.”

Somewhere, I knew, he had struck a chord. The corners of my lips fell into a frown and my breath hitched.

“So, let’s start this another way,” he said and stood up. “What’s your story?”

“Average girl. Vibrant dreams. Too short a life. Confused. Writes not because she has a lot of ideas, but because it keeps her sane. Likes stormy days and moonless nights. As hopeless as others when it is dark. Finds solace in the dawn. Hopes to get somewhere in life. And I don’t know, that’s it. What’s yours?”

“Running scared. Running away from something I’ve no clue about, but I know one day when it catches up, it’ll shatter me. Lives happy days with a lingering doubt that it is the calm before the storm. Is hopeless most of the time. Doesn’t wish or dream much because he doesn’t believe in himself. Hopes to get somewhere in life too. Clueless most of the time. Likes to hear people. Likes to travel because somehow he feels that it gives him a chance to start anew. And yes, though there’s more to it, that’s all I can think of right now.”

“I’d read your story,” I replied.

“I’d read yours too,” he said again. “And you know why you’d read my story and I’d read yours? Because though are stories seem simple, they are beautiful in their own stand. We know our struggles. We know how we get through each day. Why wouldn’t someone like to know more about that? It is the simplicity of our stories that makes it so beautiful and so unique.”

The night turned a shade lighter.

Of Meanings

Sometimes, I like to stare into the horizon. Alone. Sitting in the crisp mid-August air of one of the buzzing metro cities, I sit in silence, staring at the zoning headlights and the one, solitary, constant streetlight right outside my window. There’s no meaning to it. It’s like staring at a blank piece of canvas for long, only this scene right in front is filled with myriad colours.

Cars line the sidewalk. A few happy teenagers walk alongside, laughing and singing to themselves. The evening is slowly drawing in and yet, the sky is empty. Devoid of stars. But it’s no genius prediction that they’ll soon be there. Twinkling and zoning out into the oblivion. It takes a little bit more darkness to see them in full light.

The picture in front of me is meaningless. It’s like a page ripped apart from the perfect storybook and it flutters with the wind, falling in the hands of a lonely stranger or two, causing them to stare at it awhile longer, just to see if it resonates with their lives.

It resonates with mine. It feels empty. The picture feels empty, though there are people moving and cars honking and lights speeding. There’s a wonderful beginning and a glorious end but somehow, I’m stuck in a scene which has no meaning. Nothing. But somehow, it captures me. It fascinates me. I’m perfectly happy with being stuck in the same scene for long. I’m not waiting for a shattering climax or a surprising breakthrough. I find meaning in the meaningless scene. I find everything and yet nothing.

So, I lean out of my window and watch. The people walking below the street don’t know what tomorrow holds. Yet, they want to wake up to that newer dawn, believing their lives will be better. The streetlights flicker and stay and stay and flicker, a silent witness to the everyday world. They are the much needed light for that one lost traveller who is likely to stop by right below and peer at his phone and call his family. People may think that they don’t need the weird, old lamppost there, but they do need the light. And though nights have been synonymous with darkness, surprisingly I see every picture ten times clearer. Sometimes the night hides the reality and paints a distorted illusion. But sometimes, it shows the world in all it‘s glinting, real colours. To me, the day hides more demons than the dusk.

The scene is slowly starting to metamorphose into a meaningful picture. Or may be, I’m looking at it from a different set of eyes. It doesn’t matter. I feel like I could’ve paused and stayed in this scene for even longer even if it was devoid of meaning. Surprisingly the hunt for a meaning doesn’t haunt me anymore. For sometimes, I’ve realized, that every thing in life needn’t have a meaning. Every thing in our lives doesn’t need to be making sense. All we’ve got to do sometimes, is believe, that someday it’s all going to fall back in place. Someday, when we are miles ahead, having passed that meaningless phase, we’re going to look back and it’ll perfectly make sense.

Even if it doesn’t, it’s beauty is not lost. We don’t need to find the meaning, sometimes.

Of A Letter For My Brother

I’ve been a very bad sister. Remember when I used to steal the pizza rolls off your plate and eat them? Remember when I never saved chocolates for you and ate them alone? Remember the time when I used to hide behind closed doors and scare you? I’ve been a very very bad sister.

Remember the time I decided to go and study in another town, leaving you behind? Remember the hundred thousand fake promises I made, telling you that I’m not going faraway and that I’ll be always near you? The truth is, I’m actually far away from you. Each day, I return from college to an empty dorm room and how I wish you were here to greet me. The distance matters far too much these days. Each night, I go to bed, thinking about you, thinking whether you cry each night too. Each night, I look out from the window at the stars and surprisingly, they seem closer. Each night, I pray a million times to have you around me, to have you close.

I miss you. So much. Only I know the painful way my heart wrenches when I think about you. Only I know how much I’d give up just to be near you again. How I wish you were here, asking me your irritating questions and hugging me on bad days. I can’t wait for college to get over. I can’t wait to cone back to home and hold you close.

My college doesn’t matter now. I’ve realized that each one of us comes to a point in our lives when our family matters to us more than anything. I now realize that I’d give up anything just to be around you again.

For you are everything to me. Everything and more.

Of Windows And So Much More

Misted windows. That is all he remembers.

He remembers that one lonely Sunday afternoon, when the sun forgot to shine a bit brighter and he sat by that one solitary window in his house, squinting out at the frozen glass to see the mist settling down from the hills.

He remembers the buzzing crowds – crowds disappearing into the mist and the mist disappearing into them; of blinding headlights and screeching car tyres – of the twisted picture of the world right outside his little window.

And then, he realizes he remembers something more.

He remembers the mosaic tiled floor. He remembers the rusting window panes and the wet plaster falling off from the walls. And he remembers the one, beautiful girl who stood right in front of him, her tinted cheeks pressed against the glass.

It is always silent. She knits the days away and he reads. On particularly sad days, he sits up and watches her. She rarely looks up and never meets his eyes.

He wonders, far too often, how someone can be so focused on doing the same thing for so long, but then again, doesn’t he do the same?

Sometimes, when the sun is far too bright or the sky too dim, freckled with looming large grey clouds, he forgets what her voice sounds like; what it used to be to look into her eyes and smile.

However, when the sun fades into the iridescent horizon and the winter night seeps in, with little raindrops, he remembers everything all over again. He remembers her face – as glorious as the world outside his little window. He remembers her voice – as beautiful as the raindrops trickling down his little window. He remembers how her skin felt against his – as mystifying as the first rays of the sun of those eternally dark days that he saw through his little window. He sits by the one solitary window in his house and looks out and remembers the world beyond the sun.

Slowly, with aching steps and shivering smiles, he walks to her and holds her hand. She is his little window to everything.

With a groan, he lies down next to her.

It is always silent. He remembers every little thing now. He has a slight urge to run to the window and look out at the world, but he is tired. So he stays beside her, still.

The world continues outside the window, piercing the mist and breaking the silence.

The window stands there, a sole witness to the painfully parallel worlds on either side.

Of Nights Like These

She sits alongside the pavement, hugging her knees, waiting for the night to fall asleep.

Above her, vastness stretches far and wide. The cars have stopped. The traffic lights keep blinking. The streetlights flicker to a random rhythm. And the wind blows to a silent crescendo.

She looks up at the million infinite stars above her, light years away from where she is. She looks up and sees them twinkling from up there, looking down at her and perhaps smiling. She realizes that the existence is so vast and she is so tiny.

Placing the glass bottle on the stony pavement, she stands up and manages to find her way back home.

That night, when she falls asleep, she remembers to wake up as a newer being. Her life is so tiny when compared with the eternal universe that she resides in.

Looking up at the stars, she smiles and sleeps.

They look back at her and fall asleep.

Of Real Attachments

Here’s the thing. We hold on to our principles and beliefs. We make decisions and draw solid lines to see to the fact that everything goes according to our flow chart. But it never turns out just like we plan, does it? We try every possible way to hide our true feelings, remain dormant, close all the emotions in some vault to which nobody is possibly allowed to pay a visit, not even us. We convince ourselves that we can deal with it, go a long way with it. But the fear remains. Self-control is not an easy task at all. But is it always about us? Or maybe it is about the thing we are so hopelessly addicted to? For a moment, we scour for reasons to strike it out. Strike everything out. But then another version of ourselves speaks differently. It gives us a wise sermon about not letting it go. We cling to our hopes. We see vivid images and make movies in our mind. Letting go of something that strong is not an easy job. Because you cannot not notice something that genuine. You cannot strike something out when every cell of your body is reluctant to do so. Because, when it’s real, you cannot walk away.